


The One Who Stayed and The One Who Left

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: When things are left unspoken, the boys go their separate ways. Could there be a solution for them in the end?





	1. The One Who Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bryonyashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryonyashley/gifts), [kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/gifts).



> This started out as little ficlets on Tumblr based on [this](http://napollya-inspiration.tumblr.com/post/159620271071/fucked-around-and-got-attached-to-you-friends-can) Tumblr entry. And then the story progressed unexpectedly, so I decided to post the story on AO3.

The emotional mess Napoleon was in had been entirely his fault. He’d been slow to admit his feelings for Illya and by the time he had summoned enough courage to do so, that little flicker of flame was put out and whatever chance he thought he might have had was snatched away from him.

He’d seen his partners kiss during a mission, a kiss Napoleon presumed Illya had practised to perfection, because this was Gaby, and to Illya, Gaby only deserved the finest things in the world. They way he looked at her, the way he had his arms around her, Napoleon should have known better. No, the mission had not required any of them to resort to such tactics so…the answer was obvious.

“I’m happy you finally took the plunge, Peril. Both of you deserve each other,” he’d said, mincing his words. Even if Illya had looked a little confused, as if trying to deny the kiss had ever taken place, Napoleon knew. His eyes gave away too much.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when they had first met, when he’d first took Gaby over that Berlin wall with Illya chasing them like the madman he was. And now, both Illya and Gaby had turned out to be more than mere partners to Napoleon. They were his friends, his family, and he would do anything for them, even give up his life for their safety. But being around them now was like living a slow death. It was torturous.

And Napoleon needed out. He was suffocating.

And the ray of light he had been waiting for, an outlet for his pain from seeing Illya and Gaby every fucking day, was presented cruelly enough in the form of Adrian Sanders.

Even though shocked to see him leaving Waverly’s office when he’d arrived at UNCLE’s headquarters one morning, even if he had hated the man’s sight, Napoleon knew exactly why he was there.

“The CIA wants you back for a special case. And after that, Sanders has requested your permanent return. I told them that I would need to discuss it with you first, since you are currently an UNCLE agent. The choice is up to you, Solo.”

Napoleon looked at Waverly, his eyes deceiving the despair he’s feeling, and nodded.

“What shall I tell them?” Waverly asked and his question was met with a firm, unhesitant reply.

“I’ll accept the offer.”

 

***

 

“You’re accepting CIA’s offer.”

With a shrug, Napoleon just nods at Illya then continues gathering his documents from the pile on his desk. Illya could not know the real reason why he’s returning to the CIA. No one could ever know.

“I did not think you would want to go back.”

Illya’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Napoleon knows Illya has been trained well by the KGB, and he’s putting the skill he has to good use. But the tremor of his fingers belies it slightly. Maybe he’s troubled to learn Napoleon’s bombshell, or maybe it is only something Napoleon has conjured in his mind. Either way, he’ll be relieved of his pain once he leaves UNCLE.

“Well, it won’t be so bad. I’ve given them ten years. What’s another five more?”

A suspicious noise from Illya and Napoleon turns to finally face his Red Peril. They glare at each other for a few minutes, neither saying anything, both perhaps just biting back words that might hurt. Eventually, Napoleon looks away, unable to handle his gaze a second longer.

“This has always been temporary. We both know it from day one,” he bitterly reminds Illya, and then like he wants the Russian to further hurt, he adds, “you shouldn’t be so upset. Give it a few days. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Napoleon.”

Illya blurting out his name finally gets to Napoleon. With an inward sigh, he turns to look at Illya again, swallows a lump he’s been holding back. Illya’s standing there before him, all stoicalness gone. His mask had slipped. There’s even hurt in his eyes, Napoleon’s sure. And for a brief second he’d let Napoleon hope, that maybe, just maybe, this is just some horrific mistake from his part, but Napoleon quickly reminds himself why he’s doing this. Afraid that he’ll succumb to his emotions, afraid Illya will be able to see right through him if he stands there a second longer, Napoleon at once steps forward and pulls him into an embrace.

“Good luck, Peril. Take care of yourself, take care of Gaby.”

But Illya says nothing in return, merely stays still in Napoleon’s hold, hands stiff at his sides. Feeling like he’d made a terrible mistake, Napoleon starts to pull away, but that’s when Illya’s arms go tight around his shoulders.

“Cowboy,” he breathes, nose nuzzling Napoleon’s neck, “I wish there could be another way.”

“I wish there was too, Peril,” Napoleon chokes, and just holds him tighter. He closes his eyes, holding himself very still, not even daring to breathe. Illya doesn’t know. And he will never know. And Napoleon intends for it to stay that way for the sake of their friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The fic title is borrowed from Regina Spektor's song of the same name. And the story too is based loosely around it. Special thanks to bryonyashley and kaijusizefeels for their constant support, you always appreciate my stories and I feel blessed! And each time I don't feel like posting any more fics, you both just gave me more ideas to write! LOL.
> 
> 2) This story is also an alternate to my previous fic [I'm With You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4837154), which had a more tragic ending. And that's the only story I'd written that had ended all angsty. So maybe this is a sort of band-aid fic to make up for that.


	2. The One In Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost a year after leaving UNCLE, Napoleon is in Venice and he bumps into someone he'd never expected to see.

Venice is beautiful at night. And Napoleon’s basking in the life and beauty of it. The water from the canals gently lapping against the stone walls, resonates into an echo. He sees various gondolas gliding silently through the darkening water, carrying a handful of people happily taking in the beauty as well, as gentle soft music trickles in the air, a mix of violin and light prepared-piano tinkles in his ear.

Napoleon’s taking a random stroll in the city, dressed casually for the night in an opened collar plain white dress shirt, and dark slacks, hands shoved deep inside his pockets. He smiles at the locals who walk past him, earning a few appreciative stares from a few young women as well, some breaking into hushed giggles as he winks playfully at them. It’s good to have some downtime on his own, especially after wrapping up a difficult case with the CIA. Agent Jones had left him to his own devices, the other man already having his own plans for the night, and Napoleon’s taking it all in.

He keeps on walking, following the curvy road under an archway and onto a cobblestone path that opens up to more canals, the water’s spiralling pattern just inches away from his feet. Then he stops and takes in a deep breath, eyes closing. He remembers once taking a walk like this when he was still an UNCLE agent and a smile forms on his lips. Illya had been at his side then, silent and brooding. He had complained, not understanding the need to indulge themselves with something normally tourists would do, and it had dampened Napoleon’s mood, trying to make the Russian enjoy the night as much as he had wanted. _You Russians must loosen up a little_ , he had told Illya, and just thinking about him again makes Napoleon ache. Ever since he had left UNCLE, he’s taught himself well how to block Illya from his thoughts. But he comes to him, still, every now and then, and on nights like this, it hits him the hardest.

_He’s miserable since you left._

Damning words like those are something Napoleon isn’t prepared to hear. And getting it from Gaby had made it even worse.

Napoleon had met her by chance a few days ago at a hotel lobby near the city centre while following a lead on his assignment. He could never mistook that beautiful face for anyone else’s, even if her face was obscured behind the large glasses she was wearing. He had wanted to avoid her, but she’d seen him first, and had called out to him when she was certain no one was watching them. And she was unable to contain her obvious delight at seeing him, eyes slightly teary when she had hugged him tight, not wanting to let him go.

“It’s been almost a year, Solo.”

Napoleon had said nothing, only smiled in return. A bitter one. Because the memory churning his insides upon seeing Gaby again had been too much. And it seemed like fate was cruelly toying with him. To leave had been the hardest decision he’d ever had to make. And it had been his only solution. Being in love with a person who could ever, only, belong to Gaby meant Napoleon had to let go of Illya, a love he’d never have in the first place. And by God it had hurt.

“We’ve checked in for the night. Illya’s upstairs sweeping the rooms for bugs. You know, the usual stuff he’d do when…”

“I know.”

Napoleon had abruptly cut her off. He did not need any reminding from Gaby of what Illya’s routines were like during missions.

“He’ll be down soon. We could catch up, have a few drinks. Illya’d be happy to see you.”

But Napoleon had declined as soon as Gaby had suggested it, he had wanted to flee, because no, seeing Illya was a bad idea, no matter how much he’d told himself he wanted to. But then Gaby had said those words, and it was like a dagger piercing his heart, the feeling even worse than when he’d found out about his partners.

“I don’t get it, I thought you’d be thrilled to see him.”

“No. Don’t tell Illya you saw me,” was all he’d said to Gaby, his words almost like a plea, before saying his quick goodbyes, leaving her in a lurch and confusion in her eyes at Napoleon’s odd behaviour. And now, standing there by the water, his thoughts are propelled back to that day, because it’s been haunting him since. What had Gaby meant when she’d told him Illya’s miserable? Why would he be? He has a life with Gaby and UNCLE. Isn’t that enough for the Russian? Napoleon never thought Illya as a selfish man. And he’s quite certain his life doesn’t mean that much to Illya for him to …. No. _No!_

Not wanting to delude himself further, he decides he should return to his hotel room and call in the night before Agent Jones starts wondering of his whereabouts. But as he’s about to turn, he hears a familiar voice he hasn’t heard in too long, calling out that name, a term of endearment for him and him alone, making his heart almost leap out of his body.

“Cowboy.”

And when he sees Illya standing there before him, Napoleon knows his demons have returned.

 


	3. The One Who Seeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something twists in Illya’s gut at seeing Napoleon again after so long

Something twists in Illya’s gut at seeing Napoleon again after so long. There is a brief moment of hesitation between them before he’s smiling at him, and when Napoleon smiles back, Illya realises he’s missed him more than he’s willing to admit. But that is something he won’t tell his Cowboy.

“You’re the last person I had expected to see tonight.”

Illya shrugs at Napoleon’s attempt at downplaying their reunion. But his voice gave him away. And his eyes, it’s trying to tell him something that’s not in sync with the things he is saying.

“Gaby. She told me about you and her meeting by chance. So I think, maybe, you’re still in Venice. It seems I’ve got good luck, Cowboy. Because it is certainly not too hard to find you.”

A small smile flickers on Napoleon’s face but it’s gone in a matter of seconds as something dawns on him. He raises an eyebrow at Illya.

“So you tracked me?” Napoleon throws in a guess and when Illya nods, he asks, “How?”

Illya could tell he is curious beyond anything, perhaps running all kinds of scenarios in his head, thinking of all the possibilities, when Illya moves in nearer, near enough to touch him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he taps Napoleon’s shoe with his own.

“You never check your shoes. Bad habit. And it is just my luck you still have this pair, and you’re wearing them tonight.”

“You bugged all my shoes,” Napoleon says, shaking his head, quite stunned like he can’t believe what Illya had done. Illya’s certain Napoleon feels a little bit scandalised, but it’s always been his habit; the need to always know where his partner was. Illya never thought it’d path his way to finding Napoleon that night. But then, when he sees his brows knotting up into a serious frown, he worries he might have ruined everything.

“You think it’s cute? For you to be able to find me whenever you feel like, whenever you need to? Tracking me down all over Venice?”

Illya worries his lips. “You are upset?” he asks. But then Napoleon is smiling at him and chuckles.

“No. Maybe you’re meant to find me tonight.”

Illya hates it when Napoleon plays with words. It’s something of a challenge, trying to figure out what he really means, and Illya doesn’t need one, not at that moment. Because there are other important matters at hand that needs saying. Things that he’s put off for too long.

And he doesn’t know how to get rid of the tightness in his chest while trying his best to remain casual in front of Napoleon. And it starts bordering on awkward if they are to stand there a minute longer. But Illya’s rooted to the spot, eyes unwavering on Napoleon, wonders what’s going through his mind when his own is a mess. He suddenly wants to reach out, wants to touch Napoleon. He wants to put his arms around him, wants to do a lot of things he’s never dreamt of doing before.

“Let’s take a walk, Peril.”

Napoleon, thankfully, breaks the silence and Illya nods to his invitation.

As they walk along the canals, exchanging pleasantries, asking how the other is doing, Illya cannot help but hate how distant they’ve become, at the tangible tension that’s threatening to dampen the beautiful nightlife they’re thriving in.

“You and Gaby doing okay?”

Illya frowns at Napoleon’s sudden question but answers it, nevertheless.

“We are good. She’s in Rome now, with Waverly. Tying up the mission before we return to London.”

“Rome is where it had all started,” Napoleon muses almost sadly but before Illya could chime in, Napoleon’s already asking his next question.

“And why are _you_ still here?”

“I’ve told you my reason,” Illya answers, sends Napoleon a knowing look, and the American lets out a long breath he’s been holding in.

“Right,” Napoleon says as he looks away towards the people walking along the other side of the waterway. Illya catches something in the way he’d answered, a sort of longing or…maybe he’s just hearing things. They keep on walking in silence, past arches and bridges until they get to a particular scenic viewpoint and Napoleon stops.

“Venice is beautiful. It’s a shame I’ve to leave tomorrow,” is what he says and Illya remains silent, because he doesn’t know what to say, only watches the man standing beside him, before turning, eyes scanning the waterfront promenade, the breathtaking street lamps lighting it up, enchanting anyone that’s there to witness it. Classical music continues to waft across the air from the nearby cafes, making for a romantic setting. Napoleon had told him once when they’d taken a walk in the city while on a mission with UNCLE, that he should take Gaby on a gondola ride. Illya had only scoffed at him, saying it’s an absurd idea. Napoleon had only given him an odd look afterwards, not understanding why the idea was so off-putting.

“Did you ride the gondola this time?”

Illya marvels at Napoleon’s ability to read his mind. He casts his eyes down, mutters, “No.”

“You should’ve. Gaby would love it.”

This sparse conversation he’s having with Napoleon is doing Illya’s head in. He wishes he could pull the lines of speech that he wants from Napoleon. They’ve so much to say, and there is so much he wants to hear, and yet, Napoleon, who is always quick with a witty comeback, always knowing what to say, is too wrapped in his own thoughts at the moment. They would normally bicker and get engaged in the most absurd of conversations if nothing else, but now words seem to have abandoned them. There have been times in the past, when Illya appreciates the silence between them, because, it is when he says nothing that Napoleon would offer him with a look, invites a touch Illya’s way, and that’s what Illya is hoping for at the moment. A simple touch means more, and that is when they well and truly hear one another.

Time seems to move at a snail’s pace, and soon, little droplets of rain begin to fall and the silence starts to become deafening. Illya looks at Napoleon again and lets himself remember the truth; that he is beautiful, even in the rain. It’s a fact Illya has always known, and now, with the wetness in the air, Napoleon’s hair has curled, a few strands of hair falling heavily over his forehead. And he continues staring until Napoleon catches his eyes on him. Feeling self-conscious, he immediately brings a hand up to smooth his hair back into place. But Illya moves, catches Napoleon’s hand in his before he could do so. A sharp gasp escapes Napoleon at the contact and Illya’s long fingers fall away from Napoleon’s wrists as quickly as he had realised what he had done. A small hint of contrition for his unexpected behaviour. Illya looks to the ground, eyes locked on the very place where they are standing and then slowly, his eyes meet Napoleon’s once again.

He wants to apologise; for what he doesn’t know, and he rues the idea that they’ll go their separate ways again after tonight, not knowing when they’ll get to see each other again. The idea fills him with dread.

Panicking, the words scramble in Illya’s mind, and he blurts out what he’d been dying to tell Napoleon the first time he’d seen him standing by the waterway.

“I wish you had never left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on tumblr [here](http://el3anorrigby.tumblr.com/post/160519050797/the-one-who-stayed-and-the-one-who-left-the-one)


	4. The One With The Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya needs answers, and Napoleon contemplates. Because admitting everything to Illya is the last thing that he wants to do.

“Why did you leave? It never made sense to me.”

Napoleon looks at the Russian and finds turmoil in Illya’s eyes. His strange evening has taken another surprising twist and wonders what else is in store for him. Inhaling deep, Napoleon tries to calm himself before saying, “Not everything has to, Peril.”

“You could’ve told me your reasons. Instead of just...” Illya pauses abruptly, and Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him.

“Instead of what?”

“Instead of running away,” Illya whispers and Napoleon squirms at his words. Running away? How dare he? Illya has no right throwing accusations at him when he has no inclination of what Napoleon had been through. Napoleon really wants to lash out, wants to get angry, maybe punch him in the face. He ought to, just so Illya could feel a sliver of his pain. But he only keeps silent, looks up to the sky as if seeking help from above. The light rain falls on his face and Napoleon blinks the drops away, pushes his hair back that’s started clinging to his forehead again.

“Let’s call it a night, Peril,” Napoleon says when he realises they’re the only ones left on the promenade since the rain had begun. He starts to walk away but Illya’s gentle grip on his arm stops him.

“No. I can’t let you leave again, not without answers.”

 _“What are you trying to achieve, Illya?”_ , he wants to say but the words are lodged in his throat and all that comes out is a weak “Illya, _please_.”

Napoleon hates how he had sounded but relief washes over him when Illya pulls back, releases his hold on his arm. They are good at reading each other and somehow at that moment, Napoleon knows Illya understands what he is asking of him.

_Drop the matter, Peril, please._

The Russian looks like a kicked puppy and Napoleon feels guilty. How should have he answered Illya when he had asked him his reasons for leaving? Napoleon had needed time to regain his composure at Illya’s unexpected question, reminding him of Gaby’s admission that Napoleon leaving had affected him. Illya’s supposed to go on living his life. And he wasn’t supposed to appear in front of him, because seeing Illya again, being near him, had sent Napoleon’s mind spiralling into chaos. And he definitely could not tell Illya why he had accepted Sanders’ offer when it was the last thing he had wanted.

_I left because I loved you. And the damnedest thing is, I love you still. And I’m hating myself for it._

Napoleon regards Illya carefully as they stand there face to face, staring each other down, and while Illya searches for answers, Napoleon sees the same hurt he’d seen in Illya’s eyes the day he had told him he was leaving. Napoleon does not think that after a year, him leaving UNCLE would still matter to the Russian. Now, he is so tempted to spill everything out, biting the bullet when he’s certain their paths won’t cross again after that night. He wants Illya to kiss him, to cover him in marks. He wants to be ruined, for Illya to split him apart until he is reduced to a mere broken thing until there is no way to piece him back together again.

“I’m sorry if my decision to leave had hurt you in any way, Peril,” Napoleon says in the end. Without too much surprise, it is the safest answer he could offer. But hearing that, Illya shakes his head at once, almost defiant.

“I was not...hurt.”

“No, of course not,” Napoleon wryly says, looks away as he tries his best to tamp down his disappointment. Either Illya is being incredibly proud, or whether he himself has made an error in judgement. He never expects Illya to understand his intentions, could never really. He is clueless. So Napoleon should have no complaints at all.

Thoughts and feelings continue to boil inside him in one confusing, conflicting mess that has only distilled down to anger and longing regret. And in the end, he knows he needs to put an end to their night or he might end up hoping. Or even worse, he might end up doing something incredibly stupid like walking up to him just so he could kiss him, to make him understand.

Fighting his urge, he turns to Illya and willing his nerve, he reaches out to touch him for the first time that night. Hands on the Russian’s arm, he gives him a gentle squeeze, the gesture earning a questioning look from Illya.

“We’re good friends,” Napoleon starts, then swallows the taste of bitterness that creeps into admitting that they are and ever will be just that. “I’m happy I’d met you despite the circumstances and working with you had been...surreal, for lack of better word. But we’ve our own lives now, Peril. You and Gaby with UNCLE. Me with the CIA. That’s just how things are. And we can’t change that.”

Illya wordlessly nods, eyes wide, even if he had not understood a single thing that has happened, even if he wants to protest, still, and tell Napoleon that he’d been the one who had changed everything when he left. Illya closes his eyes for a moment, letting everything sink in. Perhaps it had been a mistake tracking Napoleon down, seeing him again, thinking things could change, even if he doesn’t know what it is that he wants.

“I suppose this is it,” he murmurs softly in defeat. A finality.

“Yes,” Napoleon struggles to answer but he says it anyway in the end because he isn’t strong enough to tell Illya otherwise.

“I should go,” he adds, prays to God Illya doesn’t sense the quiver in his voice. “I’ve an early flight back to New York tomorrow and my fellow agent is probably wondering where I am.”

“I understand,” is all Illya could muster, and without letting Napoleon say anything, he quickly says, “Go, Cowboy. Take care of yourself.”

The drizzle has stopped, mirroring an end to the charade they’re playing. Napoleon steps back from his former partner, his breath coming in stutters. Coldness sweeps into the empty space he leaves behind, and Napoleon throws Illya a sad smile, leaves without turning back once, yet he can still feel the force of Illya’s gaze, burning into his back.

 

***

 

Back in his hotel room, Napoleon pours himself a drink. He takes a swig at it before staring out at the view from his balcony. But the lights and the breathtaking beauty of Venice doesn’t take his mind off of Illya. Instead, the Russian lingers in his head, opening up old wounds like it had happened yesterday, and Napoleon wonders if it will ever heal. Unthinking, he drops the now empty glass in his hand onto the cobblestone path a few feet below, watches it break, scattering to pieces, mirroring the state of his heart. One says a human heart is able to withstand numerous heartbreak, and for one who has attested to it, he begs to differ now.

Later, Napoleon leans both hands on the bathroom’s washing basin, grips it hard and looks in the mirror. Studying his own reflection, he notices it for the first time, the exhaustion on his face. Under the dim lights he looks somewhat worse; pale skin and the dark shadows under his eyes apparent. He sighs aloud, tired of all the lying, of the pretence. But isn’t that what he has been doing his entire life? Isn’t he a professional at putting up a front? He groans as he bows his head, hating seeing this kind of weakness in himself, can’t help but wonder if Illya had noticed it too. Cursing silently, he turns on the tap and splashes water on his face, goes to wipe it dry with a nearby face towel when he suddenly notices Jones hovering by the bathroom door.

“You look terrible? What’s going on?”

Napoleon’s not physically ill but he won’t tell Jones he had heaved the contents of his stomach not a couple of minutes ago. Thankfully there’s no evidence of that for the other agent to come asking for further questions.

“Must’ve been something I ate earlier,” Napoleon lies.

“Had too much risotto?” Jones inquires and Napoleon just shrugs, mouths _’maybe’_ as he walks past him into his bedroom. Of all the CIA agents he’s worked with, Jones is the only one who doesn’t judge him for his past and seeing how well Napoleon works with him is probably the reason Sanders had paired them together. Napoleon knows Jones watches his every move under Sanders’ orders but he gives him room enough to breathe and that’s enough for Napoleon. Ignoring Jones’s concerned look, he reaches out for his suitcase underneath the bed, ready to pack for their flight to New York the next morning.

“I'm glad Sanders is giving us the two weeks break after this. Certainly looking forward to just disappearing for a while,” he says, goes to grab his clothes but what Jones says next has Napoleon stumped.

“Unfortunately there’s been some change of plans. We’re not going to New York. Something’s urgent has come up and we’re to meet him in London.”

Napoleon’s heart starts beating faster, definitely not liking where the conversation is heading.

“London?”

Jones nods. “The CIA has a new lead on THRUSH. And we’ll be getting some help from your former handlers at UNCLE.”

Napoleon almost wants to cry and laugh at the same time hearing Jones’ news. When he’s left alone again, he just slumps on the bed with a loud groan. He has a feeling his meeting with Illya earlier had not been the last and his heart plummets at the idea of seeing Illya again.


	5. The One With The Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing Napoleon again is the last thing Illya expects, but working with him again? Things will get a lot more complicated than he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've left this story for some time, so maybe this chapter might feel a little disjointed? And the story has more subplots now. Lol, what have I got myself into?

Illya arrives in London a day after Waverly had informed him on UNCLE’s new directive regarding their latest assignment. He meets Gaby in Waverly’s office and she gives him a look that probably reads frustration. They were supposed to have a couple of weeks off after their last assignment and Waverly’s change of plans might have something to do with it. Illya simply gives her a wan smile.

“It looks like you will have to postpone your spa visits.”

Moving away from the large window overlooking the city, Gaby only shrugs at his attempt to humour her.

“Did you find Solo?”

Illya should have expected that question from her. When he had told her his intentions, wanting to stay back in Venice when they’d been ordered to fly to Rome just so he could meet up with their former partner, she had warned him that he might not like the outcome of it. And just by the expression on Illya’s face, Gaby knows she had been right.

“Did you talk to him about what you’d wanted to say?”

“He was in hurry. Flying to New York. We did not have much time,” Illya says without acknowledging Gaby’s questioning eyes as he makes his way towards the empty chairs placed in front of Waverly’s desk. There are three but nowadays the one seat is left vacant. It has always been since Napoleon left them. 

He glances over his shoulder when Gaby takes her place beside him and the two share a silent remark. Neither of them say anything but Illya could tell Gaby is doing her best to bite back words, words that would probably hurt.

“Do you have any idea what this urgent meeting is about?” Illya begins, changes the subject before Gaby could start asking questions he does not want to hear. 

“No, your guess is as good as mine,” Gaby answers.

She’s resigned to the fact that Illya probably would not disclose anything about what had happened in Venice, not at the moment anyway. Perhaps he would when she corners him later in his own office. Napoleon’s behaviour when they had bumped into each other continues to puzzle her. He’d been evasive, especially when she had brought Illya’s name up, and it had surprised her. She knows they’re extremely close and she had not exaggerated when she had told Napoleon Illya had seem dispirited when he had left UNCLE. 

“Illya…”

Before she could say anything else, Waverly walks into the office. His cheery smile is nothing to be surprised about, he always has this positive aura about him, but Gaby’s jaw drops when she sees the men behind their superior, one of them a very familiar face.

“Solo,” she gasps. The reign of confusion on her face is evident and Illya at her side has gone stock still. Because the last person they had ever expected to see is Napoleon. What is worse, Sanders is with him. Another man, whom Gaby presumes is Napoleon’s current partner, is standing by his side as well and she could not tell anything from the look of their stoic faces. 

 

***

 

Since the moment Napoleon stepped into Waverly’s office, Illya has not once taken his eyes off of his former partner. His gaze is intense, questioning, and Waverly wonders for a moment whether having them work together again is a good idea. But the CIA has requested their help and the matter is pressing. When Sanders had briefed him what the entire thing was all about days earlier, Waverly knew the matter has to be dealt with swiftly, understands why the agency needs their help.

“The CIA had wanted me to brief you on the mission. I’m sure Sanders has explained this to you, Solo?”

Napoleon nods quietly. Although a tad self-conscious than usual, knowing a particular set of eyes are on him, he pushes the feeling aside and shifts in his seat. From the corner of his eyes, however, he realises Illya has now turned to stare at Waverly. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding.

“Sanders has only mentioned THRUSH. Other than that, I suppose I know as much as Kuryakin and Teller do,” Napoleon speaks for the first time after both Sanders and Jones had left him with his former teammates, chances another glance at Illya, and then Gaby. Illya refuses to meet his eyes but Gaby gives him a weak smile. 

“What’s this about, Waverly?” Napoleon asks.

“Well,” Waverly says as he proceeds to take his seat behind his desk. “Two weeks ago, a trusted CIA source flagged an offshore brokerage account for a minor clerical violation. Further investigations revealed that the account was fictitious.”

“A phantom account?” Napoleon then inquires.

“Yes.”

“Are we certain about this?” 

Waverly nods.

“Yes. And because of its offshore status, it was turned over to the British Intelligence. They ran through their channels, encoded the names and values of the fictitious stocks within their portfolio. Cryptography found a hidden message, which obviously the sender had intended for us to find.”

“And that is?”

“A THRUSH agent wants to defect.”

“Defect.”

Illya cuts in this time. All the while listening, he starts to find the entire thing rather troubling but decides not to let his worries known. Not yet.

Waverly then drops the necessary documents onto the desk between his agents and Napoleon reaches for it the same moment Illya’s doing the same. Their fingers almost touched. Napoleon pulls back and so does Illya. Across from them, Waverly watches the tensed moment unfold. Gaby on the other side of the desk looks at Waverly and only shakes her head at him. Waverly toys with the pen in his hand, regards the unspoken message Gaby is trying to tell him.

“As I was saying, gentlemen,” Waverly continues, clearing his throat. “A THRUSH wants to defect and in exchange for his extraction and immunity, he’s willing to turn over everything he knows about THRUSH. And considering the means through which he sent the CIA the message, they believe he has top tier access inside the organisation.”

Napoleon’s eyes briefly meet Illya’s, then linger at the documents still left untouched between them. And knowing the question that will come from the American, Waverly quickly addresses him.

“Since UNCLE has dealt with THRUSH, we are to assist the CIA on this. Every bit of information we might have would be insightful in bringing them down.”

“The only reason why we are in this?” Gaby chips in with a doubtful look. It’s obvious to Waverly now that each of the agents are having suspicions regarding the operation. And he can’t fault them for it.

“On the pretext this looks like a simple extraction mission. But a follow up after it is done would be needed. The arduous task of infiltrating through their ranks, dismantling their network.”

“So what is our move?” Illya then asks quickly. 

“I’m sending Solo with you to Dublin, posing as auditors. You both have worked together before so the cooperation would and should be seamless. Follow the instructions. You will meet with the defector in a local marketplace. The identifying marker will be three sugar cubes placed on a red napkin at the edge of the table he’ll be at. And you only have a twenty-minute window.”

“Twenty minutes?” Illya says, frowns at the unrealistic time frame they have to work with.

“Those were his terms. And he offered no backup or contingency to his plan. If we don’t show up, there’s no assurance that this opportunity will present itself again. If this defector can lead us to THRUSH, we’ll finally have them on the ropes. So we’ll have to regard this as a top priority to get it done.”

Gaby eyes both of her friends. Despite Waverly’s explanation and assurance, she couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy at the mission handed to them. 

“Once the terms are agreed, you are to take him to our designated extraction point where Agent Jones, Miss Teller, and the rest of the team will meet you for the next course of action.”

Napoleon takes in a ragged breath. Whatever the agenda, it’s not like Illya and him have any other choice other than to follow through with their tasks. His eyes flicker towards Illya and this time their gazes meet for longer than a second. His expression is grim, fingers twitching minutely, and Napoleon fights back his urge to grab his hand with his.

“You fly there tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Read the dossiers.”

Waverly breaks their moment and he watches as the two agents stand to leave the room quickly. He is no mind reader, but he could tell something’s going on between the two. He’s certain, however, that whatever it was that had happened between them while apart, will be sorted out soon enough. 

 

***

 

After pacing the hallways, thoughts a jumbled mess, Illya returns to his office only to find Napoleon inside and his gut twists upon seeing him. He’s leaning on Illya’s desk, sifting through the dossiers in his hands, looks up when he finds the Russian standing at the doorway. Napoleon thinks it is criminal how adorable Illya’s made himself look. That confused face is not supposed to stir feelings he’s buried for him, _still_ has for him despite telling himself it is useless, but somehow, the tightness in his chest returns and Napoleon knows the next few days will be torture.

“So, another mission, Peril. Just like the good old times. Who would’ve thought we’d get to do this again.”

“I wasn’t expecting this. I thought we’d never see each other again after Venice,” Illya mutters and Napoleon drops the dossiers on Illya’s desk and stands. 

“Are you disappointed?”

Illya shakes his head. “No, Cowboy. I, I just...it is not expected. All of this.”

He could barely articulate what he really wants to say, his emotions twisting inside, unable to discern that they’re actually going to be working together again after a year. Perhaps for the last time? He hates to think if that is the case.

“This isn’t permanent, you know. If you worry I’m coming back for good.”

At Napoleon’s words, Illya’s expression goes perplexed. Is that what Napoleon thinks he’s feeling? Worried? Not wanting him to be there when all he could think while he’d been away was to have him back? Suddenly anger rises up in him but he can’t seem to find the right words to refute the American. Frustrated, he turns to leave but stops before he could when he sees what looks like heartbreak on Napoleon’s face. But his expression immediately changes in the next instant and Illya freezes. Napoleon moves forward, steps tentatively towards him and for a moment Illya thinks Napoleon is about to touch him, perhaps an arm around his shoulder, a touch he’s been longing for since he last saw him, only to see him reaching for the door instead, wrenching it open.

A heartbeat, a pause, and Illya waits for something to be said. He’s holding his breath. Doesn’t dare to even move. 

“Working together again but with different organisations. Me, a CIA agent, and you, now, UNCLE. Feels a bit like Rome all over again.”

“Solo, _don’t_ ,” Illya says like a plea.

“This, _us_ ,” Napoleon gestures a finger between them, “it won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No,” Illya blurts too hurriedly. “Why would it be?”

There is silence again, and wanting the awkwardness to end, Napoleon just wryly smiles.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Peril. We have an early flight.”

Illya mumbles ‘okay’ and once the door clicks closed behind him, it leaves him alone in a space that somehow feels too empty and too suffocating all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’d enjoyed this latest chapter, tell me what you think, and I hope I can update the next one soon. Thanks for all your kudos and feedbacks! <3


	6. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya decides to confront Napoleon while on their way to meet their mark.

“You both should really stop pretending. It’s getting painfully obvious.”

When Napoleon had left UNCLE, Gaby couldn’t understand his reasons. But the undeniable tension she had seen between Illya and him in Waverly’s office yesterday reaffirms what she had suspected all along.

“Talk to him, Illya. You won’t get a better chance to do so.”

Illya wants to be indignant, wants to say he doesn’t understand what the hell Gaby is talking about. The words almost escape his lips but realises it would be fruitless. Gaby knows him too well, and at his most convincing, it will still take a herculean effort to make her believe she’s just conjuring things that aren’t really there.

They’re sitting together on a bench inside the airport while waiting for Napoleon to arrive, sharing information regarding the mission at hand, when Gaby had decided to bring the matter up. Her knowing eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses and Illya’s thankful for it. He’s certain he’ll break if he were to look into her eyes but just like she’s reading his mind, Gaby takes the sunglasses off, much to Illya’s consternation. The idea of him alone on that plane with Napoleon, while the rest of the team flying in later, is already doing his head in, he needn’t Gaby compounding it any further.

Ruefully, he sighs.

“This would be worse time to tell Solo anything.”

“And when is the best time? You both had every opportunity to do so, but you didn’t.”

Illya is trained for a lot of things, but he would never be prepared for conversations such as this, not when it concerned matters of the heart. But Gaby’s gentle probing does the trick.

“It isn’t easy,” he says, admits for the first time what he had hold in for a very long time. Seeing Napoleon in Venice, and then again, yesterday when he’d never expected to, had given him answers. 

Napoleon’s sudden departure from his life had turned his life upside down; thoughts of the infuriating man constantly invading his thoughts, it drove Illya mad. Confused. The feeling of strange emptiness, the void. It had confounded him every waking hour. And he couldn’t close his eyes at night without Napoleon’s face haunting his dreams.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, he didn’t want it to happen, but it had. He could not stop who he chooses to fall in love with. And now there is no escaping it.

Defeated, Illya catches Gaby’s eyes, and the understanding look she’s offering.

“I wish things had worked out between us. It would have been simpler. Makes more sense.”

Gaby had no doubt that whatever Ilya had felt for her was true at the time, but she understands truly well who had really taken residence in his heart.

“What we had, it wasn’t real. It’s made up. It’s what we want to believe, what we want to hold on to. If we had gone on, we’d be living a lie. I don’t want that and neither do you. It was the right thing to do.”

Strangely when she’d said those words to Illya, it hadn’t hurt her. And she’s certain it hadn’t hurt Illya too.

“We don't do simple, Illya. And our lives don’t make sense half of the time.”

“I know,” Illya replies, and then smiles at her. “But we’re still good friends. Is important to me.”

Gaby returns it in kind, leans in and pats his arm.

“Talk to him.”

The realisation that he has to, sooner rather than later, churns Illya’s insides. He will have time to bring it up on the plane; they’ll be alone, with no interruptions, although the idea of going through with it fills him with dread.

 

***

 

They’ve been airborne for quite sometime and still there has been no exchange of words between the two former UNCLE partners since they boarded. They are sitting opposite of each other inside the single engine plane, with enough legroom and a tray table between them, minding their own business, with Illya going through the dossiers and Napoleon reading a book. The silence between them is calm, almost too calm, it secretly grates at Illya’s nerves. Once in awhile he’ll steal glances at Napoleon, hoping he’ll look up, hoping he’d say something, but the stretch of silence grows. Getting agitated, Illya fidgets with his watch while drumming his pen against the window, but nothing he does seems to be getting Napoleon’s attention. Unable to stand it any longer, he breaks the silence.

“What are you reading?”

The question sounds absurd as it is because he could clearly see the book in Napoleon’s hands. But he waits anyway for Napoleon’s reply.

“Calvino.”

Napoleon had answered him without even looking up. And somehow, that hurts.

Illya tries again.

“Have you reviewed the files?” he asks him casually, trying his best to engage Napoleon in a conversation without sounding too eager or forceful.

“Of course, I reviewed the files.”

Napoleon’s attention is still on his book, continues being curt, and Illya decides enough is enough. Putting the documents aside, he confronts Napoleon straight on.

“Okay, Cowboy. This is not going to work. Not like this.”

“What isn’t?” Napoleon raises an eyebrow, finally looking up.

“We said there won’t be problem between us, so why you acting like this?”

Napoleon throws his book down and narrows his eyes at Illya. The Russian’s timing is perfect, wanting to have this particular conversation when they’re on the goddamned plane. It isn’t too surprising and Napoleon had expected it, somewhat. The signs had been there in Venice, as well as yesterday when they were in the office space they once shared. Illya clearly had wanted to say something. But he is cunning indeed, cornering Napoleon now with nowhere to run.

“What have I done, Cowboy?” Illya presses him and Napoleon shrugs.

“Nothing at all, Peril. You’ve done nothing. And no, I don’t have a problem with you. I don’t have anything to do with you.”

The last bit is just to spite Illya and Napoleon is secretly enjoying hurting him like this, even if he’s entirely clueless about why Napoleon’s behaving like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. When he’s about to reach for his book again, Illya stops him, catches his wrist. The touch burns him. Aches.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Napoleon hisses, tries to pry away from Illya’s hold but the Russian won’t relent. 

“I need answers. Because I did not ask for this mission. For us to work together again and you behaving like child.”

“Well, neither do I!”

“So why are you avoiding me?”

“Says who?”

“It is obvious!”

Thoughts and feelings boil inside of Napoleon, in one confusing, conflicting mess that only distills down to anger. He really feels like punching Illya’s face but Illya’s grip on his wrist is bruising.

Napoleon narrows his eyes at the Russian.

“That’s my prerogative. Whatever I want to do is my business. I’m just sitting here reading my book when you’d decided to engage in this lovely conversation.”

Illya is finding it very difficult to stay calm. He doesn’t regret bringing the matter up, but he does regret everything that has not happened between them. Him realising with increasing clarity ever since he figured out what it is that he wants, that Napoleon could be something more than just a friend, a partner, eats at him. If he had known it sooner, he wouldn’t have let him leave, he would have stopped him. Perhaps they might have had a chance. But he had left. And Illya thought that was the end. But suddenly there was Venice and now he’s back right within his reach, and what Gaby had said makes him more determined to end his charade around Napoleon.

He lets go of Napoleon’s wrist.

“Tell me the real reason you left UNCLE.”

Napoleon’s gaze is at once upon him like daggers, heat climbing visibly up his cheeks. He worries that Illya could read right through him as he sits there unmoving for a moment, pulse flickering wildly in his throat contemplating Illya’s question. Why does it even matter anymore? Because it shouldn’t. It’s been a year. But Illya’s there looking at him, expectant eyes gnawing at Napoleon to spill everything out. Groaning, he rakes a hand through his hair.

“I think Sanders gave me this mission with a perverse intent of torturing me,” Napoleon mutters under his breath but Illya catches every word. It still doesn’t answer his question, though he suspects it’s a clue Napoleon’s giving him. Unsatisfied, he repeats himself with more authority, hands braced on the armrests. Napoleon challenges his look, brows drawn tight together, lips pursed into a bloodless line.

“Why is it so important, Peril? Why do you want so badly to know?”

“I cannot go on, not knowing why.”

And Napoleon just stares, swallows at Illya’s admission. He really wants to get angry, because what exactly is Illya trying to achieve? Whatever his reasons, Napoleon leaving shouldn’t have affected him that much, unless…unless...and Napoleon suddenly can’t help but let himself entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, Illya already knows and he’s just trying to pry the words from him. Just to humiliate him.

And Napoleon can’t take it anymore.

“You want to know why?”

“Yes,” Illya manages to say, then, very quietly with a little nod, mutters, “tell me.”

Letting his eyes slip closed, Napoleon focuses on what he wants to say.

“You might not like it, Peril.”

“I do not like many things. The worst is you leaving without reason.”

Napoleon’s heart thumps inside.

“You left me.”

“Illya...”

“ _Please_. Tell me.”

And then the dam breaks.

“I want you...” Napoleon blurts it out and Illya’s world tumbles at his admission. “I want you but I know I can’t...feel that way for you. Not supposed to feel that way for you. It’s wrong. And knowing you have Gaby. How could I do that to her? To you? When I see you with her, damn it, I know I can’t get in the way of the two people I care most in the world. I can’t. So, that’s why I left. That’s why I left.”

There is an eerie pause after that as Napoleon settles back in his seat, his breathing too loud, too harsh against the silence in the cabin. Across from him, Illya sits there like he’d been struck mute, not noticing the entire moment while Napoleon was pouring his heart out, his own hands had been gripping the armrests tight his knuckles had turned white. And now that Napoleon has given him what he desperately wants to hear, he could barely breathe, could hardly say a word.

“I’m sorry, Illya. I told you you won’t like what I’ve to say but there it is. Right out in the open.”

Napoleon’s eyes are sad, with no trace of insincerity in his voice. And Illya feels downright terrible for making him think it.

“Solo…” he croaks but Napoleon is quick to cut him off.

“Look, Illya, really, I am sorry if this revelation has caused you some kind of distress. And I apologise for my uncalled behaviour earlier. I never meant to cause any offence.”

Napoleon is actually apologising, and Illya doesn’t understand why he’s letting him.

“That’s not it…” he starts to speak, but his words fail. He swallows, and breathes in deeply. “You do not need to apologise.”

“Yes, I have to. For letting you know something as terrible as that. Not that you’d actually return my feelings if Gaby wasn’t in the equation, right?” he adds, eyes intense on Illya.

“This is what you think?” Illya replies, his hands shaking, the trembling intensifying. Napoleon still doesn’t know. He ought to tell him now. But the words are still stuck, somehow.

“Yes, I do know this, who am I kidding? But don’t worry, after Dublin I’ll be gone so all of us could return to our normal lives.”

“Is that what you really want?” Illya husks shakily. “To run away again?”

There is something in his eyes. A look that Napoleon recognises and his mind blanks. When he next speaks, each word is let out with a monumental effort.

“That’s fucking low, Kuryakin. You had no idea what I’d been through.”

But before Illya could even say anything else, the plane suddenly swerves sharply, before dipping, making him fall forward across the small space between them, and he had to stop his fall by bracing his hands against the headrest on either side of Napoleon’s shocked face. Quickly getting over their initial shock, admissions and arguments forgotten for the moment knowing their lives are in danger, they stumble towards the cockpit amidst the turbulence to check the reason for its alarming descent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate kudos and comments so much to keep going. <3

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The fic title is borrowed from Regina Spektor's song of the same name. And the story too is based loosely around it. Special thanks to bryonyashley and kaijusizefeels for their constant support, you always appreciate my stories and I feel blessed! And each time I don't feel like posting any more fics, you both just gave me more ideas to write! LOL.
> 
> 2) This story is also an alternate to my previous fic [I'm With You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4837154), which had a more tragic ending. And that's the only story I'd written that had ended all angsty. So maybe this is a sort of band-aid fic to make up for that.


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